


Fighting Dragons With You

by winterwaters



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: 2x10 spoilers, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Human Experimentation, Hurt/Comfort, Rescue Missions, lab rats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-09 21:57:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3265799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterwaters/pseuds/winterwaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: Bellamy undergoes trials within Mount Weather, not expecting to ever see Clarke again. Little does he know that she refuses to accept that.</p><p>--Or, how Clarke returns to Mount Weather to rescue Bellamy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fighting Dragons With You

**Author's Note:**

> So this is an AU idea for how Clarke would rescue Bellamy. Highly unlikely tbh, but I just couldn't get it out of my head. It requires him being stuck in there for a lot longer than I would like :( Also the Mountain Men's motivations/actions are purely of my imagination. Title is from the song Long Live by Taylor Swift (such bellarke feels.)  
> Anyways, I really hope you enjoy this. Feedback is appreciated!

Bellamy’s world has been reduced to three things:

Fluorescent lights.

Needles.

Pain.

Not always in that order.

He loses track of time quickly from the moment he’s dragged inside the intake door. Waking to steel bands around his neck and arms is no longer frightening - it’s just his new reality.

Despite everything, he hates the fluorescent lights the most.

They flicker endlessly, teasing with the darkness he so craves but never quite going out. Always dim enough to keep him just beyond the reach of sleep.

(Unless he’s upside down. Then, he welcomes the rush of dizziness that just about ensures his world is about to go black.)

Those damn lights are all over interior of this mountain fortress, it seems. They wink in the corridors, in the cages, in his cell. The low buzz of electricity is all he hears when Dr. Tsing probes his mouth and body. Her gloved fingers and clinical stare make him want to spit in her face.

(He does, once. The excruciating pain that followed was well worth it, if only to see the outrage break through her usual careless mask.)

Bellamy takes special pleasure in that small moment. When she stopped being detached and cold and suddenly became human.

It reminds him he’s still human. He might be be bent, hell probably fractured too, but he won’t break.

He becomes used to the routine. Wake from that strange state between wakefulness and sleep when the door buzzes open, sometimes eat food if and when it's offered, then get sent from room to room where he’s examined like a fucking lab rat. Tested for strength, agility, reflexes. Healing.

The tank is the worst. (He thinks it might be the doc’s favorite.)

At least when he’s strapped to the table he can breathe the stale air in the room. (God, he misses fresh air.)

It’s one such day, when he’s lying on his stomach pressed facedown on the steel cot, that the routine breaks. There's only ever one person who enters the exam rooms. But today, two pairs of footsteps ring out when the door opens.

The first, he knows. The _click clack_ of Tsing’s heels is like a metronome at this point.

The other footfalls confuse his already hazy mind. They’re heels, too - _another woman?_ \- but where Tsing’s steps are crisp and precise, these are deliberate and slow.

His entire body goes taught, though he can’t fathom why.

“No speaking,” Tsing says sharply.

He’s about to remind her that he has nothing to say, except then he realizes she’s not talking to him. The other visitor in the room must agree, because the footsteps stop well short of his vision.

Bellamy barely feels Tsing remove the wrap on his back and examine his ruined skin. He barely hears her when she talks about platelets and clotting and the size of his red blood cells. Everything in him is focused on trying to figure out who else is in the room. Why his body is responding so strongly when he can’t even fucking see their face. 

(There’s a tiny part of him that knows exactly why, but that’s simply impossible, so he ignores it.)

Tsing then moves to his shoulder, and he bites down on the pain that flares within as she begins to unwrap the binding. “The dislocation healed remarkably well,” she’s saying. Her voice is smooth and practical, not a hint of emotion to be found.

There’s a small shuffling of feet, heels giving a quick click as whoever’s there strains to see what she’s pointing at. The doctor sighs.

“Alright. Come closer.”

Bellamy’s nails are digging into his palm, his neck sweaty with the effort not to turn. The footsteps begin, careful but quick, and stop directly at his side.

“See the swelling, here?” Tsing’s gloved finger traces his shoulder and he stifles another moan. “A day ago there was…”

But Bellamy isn’t listening anymore, because someone is standing next to him, _someone_ whose steady breathing he knows almost as well as his own. That same someone is no more than inches away; if he stretched his fingers hard enough, he might touch skin.

He knows this the way he knows his heart, because how many times has he stood close enough to breathe her in, to wonder if he reached across that small gap, if she would respond?

But he doesn’t move. There are an overwhelming number of reasons this can’t be real. 

Drugs, first and foremost. The doctor is not above inducing hallucinations.

Second, there are too many people that need her leadership outside these walls.

Third, this could be a trap.

Fourth, because she _can’t_ be here or they might finally break him.

The list goes on in his mind, drowning out Tsing’s voice and his itchy fingers and the tightness in his body, until he’s just managed to convince himself that Tsing is simply speaking to a new trainee.

Finally, _finally_ , his shoulder is wrapped again and Tsing’s heels are _click clacking_ away at her usual brisk pace and he hears the familiar scribble of her pen on that damn clipboard she always carries around.

Cool fingers brush his wrist in a swift caress, so light he thinks it’s a dream.

Except the sob in his throat tells him otherwise.

It’s her. _Oh god,_ it’s her.

His eyes squeeze shut as he presses his face into the table, waiting, _needing_ both pairs of footsteps to leave. There’s no resistance in him as the guards lift him off the table and take him back to the cages. 

He wants to cry.

He wants to scream.

He wants to _fight._

He wants to hold her and never let go.

He’s so fucking terrified.

~~~~~~~

Bellamy doesn’t see her again for several visits. The time passes in a daze as he goes through the motions, robotically taking whatever Tsing and sometimes Cage put him through. He seems to have passed some first phase of whatever trial he’s undergoing, because now their focus isn’t so much to cause pain but to examine his recovery.

He barely pays attention. 

The thought of Clarke consumes his every waking moment. His brain rattles with countless scenarios for how she could have come to be in that small room, clean and quiet and observing the doctor.

Observing _him._

There’s no doubt in his mind that she has a plan. And true to form it’s one that will probably require some time to fully take effect. He just hates that it involves her seeing his torment. Bellamy knows her well enough to know the guilt is already building rapidly, and there’s no way this can help. But even still, the idea that she’s inside these walls, somehow here with him, makes his heart flare with hope.

(And fear. Always fear.)

But he refuses to give any measure of satisfaction to his tormentors. His face is carefully blank upon every evaluation, no hint of his revelation anywhere to be found. That resides deep within him, so deep that nothing except her could ever retrieve it.

So when he hears the familiar, brisk gait of the doctor followed by a set of slower but no less determined footsteps, he has to shove his face into the cot not to smile.

He can’t believe he even remembers _how._

Now he knows why she hasn’t been around. There’s only one type of visit where he’s unable to look up at any point, and this is it.

(Part of him wonders if she’s been observing his other sessions from behind the glass he always assumed was just a mirror until this moment.)

He hears her settle against the wall again, well out of his sight. Tsing gives the same warning: “No speaking.”

Then she goes through her usual checks, examining the newly healing skin and giving her observations out loud. This time, they’re accompanied by a faint scratching sound, which Bellamy soon realizes is pencil on paper. His mind is flooded with memories of Clarke writing in that tiny notebook, pen between her teeth and eyebrows scrunched together to produce that small, beloved crease in her forehead.

If they ever make it out alive, he’s going to kiss that crease, along with every other inch of her. 

That thought is pretty much enough to distract him the rest of the session.

Until Tsing touches the fresh burn on his neck right below his hair, and he hisses in surprise.

The pencil stops. After a moment, the heels move forward. Tsing continues to talk, explaining the degree of the burn and the different rate of healing. The footsteps stop by his head. Bellamy swallows and keeps his face turned down, focusing on the cool steel of the cot against his heated forehead and not the fact that if he opens his eyes and maybe inches his head to the left just _that much_ \--

Tsing smears a lotion over the burn, explaining the ingredients and properties and how they’ve discovered a certain plant seems to offer advantages over another. 

The longer they stand there, the harder it becomes not to open his eyes. Then a hand settles onto the cot, the pencil tapping absently, and he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood so he won’t smile.

As soon as he hears the familiar whoosh of the doctor’s coat and the quick heels moving to the slot where his chart is kept, his eyes spring open and slide left.

Everything in him relaxes at the sight of her pale, slender fingers. They hold the pencil in a loose grip, still tapping against the counter. Then she drops the notebook.

With a small yelp of surprise _(fake, so fake, come on)_ , she crouches to retrieve it. Bellamy’s eyes narrow to slits long enough to see the yellow braid swing over Clarke’s shoulder before Tsing marches back over and he shuts his eyes completely.

Without a word, the two exit, though he hears a muffled conversation begin in the hall. A strange feeling bubbles up inside of him, and he realizes it’s a laugh.

It’s her, alright. And she’s here to stay.

~~~~~~~

The first time he hears Clarke speak, he thinks it’s a dream.

The world is dark behind his eyelids. Only a single thought forces through the cloudiness in his mind - he wasn’t supposed to see her today. 

But her voice, though quiet, is undeniably in the same room. It washes over him like a wave, sweeping through his body and winding around his heart until he’s drowning in it.

He never thought he’d hear it again.

He wonders how the others don’t hear the anger brimming just below the surface of her words. Though her voice is clipped and steady, it’s not without emotion. Not to his ears. But maybe that’s just because he knows her so well. He hopes that’s the case. For her plan to work, whatever it is, she has to be able to deceive them.

So he keeps his head down, hanging limply in the restraints. Forces every part of his body to remain slack even as he awakens, the sensation slowly returning to his limbs. He vaguely remembers the bite of a needle in his neck. Cage must have injected him with something again, something that made him lose consciousness.

They aren’t expecting him to come out of it yet; it’s the only reason they would have let her into the room. Just as he’s finished the thought, Tsing speaks up.

“Let’s not dally. His metabolism is already heightened. We don’t know how long he’ll be out.”

Cage’s voice oozes confidence. “Relax, doc. It was a damn high dose - you made sure of that, didn’t you?”

It’s not Tsing who answers.

“Of course I did,” Clarke says, affronted. “I know how to measure out a sample.”

It takes everything Bellamy has not to smile. She fucking did it. She lowered it on purpose.

Which means, she knows he’s awake right now.

As if she can read his mind (which, she probably can, _of course_ she can), Clarke’s footsteps approach. They don’t stop until she’s directly in front of him. When she speaks again, her voice is sharp, though there’s an undercurrent of something else, too. 

A warning.

“Does this look like someone who’s about to snap out of a drug-induced delirium?” She snaps. 

She pokes him square in the chest, the pad of her finger only touching his skin for a moment but sending sparks throughout his body nonetheless. He doesn’t move.

(His brilliant princess avoids the scar tissue on purpose.)

“Does this?” She asks again pointedly, and shoves at his arm. (His uninjured arm.) He flops like a rag doll.

“Now, are you going to let me assess my patient or not?” The fire in her voice stokes his own.

“He’s not yours,” Tsing says tersely.

_Think again, doc._

Bellamy doesn’t have to open his eyes to know Clarke has crossed her arms and cocked her head.

“Not yet,” she finally says.

It’s a challenge.

God, he fucking loves her.

There’s silence, and then she sighs. He knows what comes after that sigh.

“Well if _I_ can’t, will you at least allow me to help? I can’t exactly learn otherwise, can I?” She extends the olive branch reluctantly. “Please,” she adds.

He hangs there, waiting. Wishing. Finally Tsing clacks across the floor to join her. Bellamy braces himself. The doctor won’t be so careful with him - she’ll go straight for his bruises, just to see for herself that he’s really out.

“Wait.”

It’s blurted out so quickly he wonders if Clarke really intended to say it. Then she continues, “I’d like you to show me how to run through a full exam. Where would you start? How would you proceed?”

There’s a long moment in which the doctor considers. Finally she says, “I check the oldest wounds first, to see the progression. Sometimes there’s a pattern in healing with common muscle groups.”

“Which is the oldest?”

“Right now, the shoulder.”

It’s Clarke’s fingers that land on his skin, probing and questioning. Every movement is deliberate. He ignores every ache, simply concentrating on her touch and the sound of her voice. Sometimes her hands linger just a tad longer than strictly necessary, and it gives him strength.

When he finally is left alone, after a pointed reminder from Clarke that she doesn’t expect him to wake for a full half hour still, he replays every second of it in his mind.

And when he does officially come to, he makes such a show of yawning and blinking and scrunching his face that he just knows she’s trying not to roll her eyes.

~~~~~~~

There’s an elderly man in the room when they strap Bellamy into the cuffs this time. Surprisingly, it’s only by the arms. The metal band normally at his neck remains off to the side. His gaze remains on the stranger, who is impeccably dressed in a dark suit, his clothes crisp and clean. Bellamy only has time to wonder how old he is before he nods to Cage, who opens the door again.

Clarke steps inside, and the breath leaves his body in a rush. 

It’s the first time he’s laid eyes on her in… jesus, he doesn’t even know how long but it may as well have been forever. He lets himself look, lets the surprise stretch across his face even as he hungrily takes in every detail. 

Her hair is still pulled back from her face, hanging down her back in a thick rope. She’s dressed like the others, a simple shirt and pants and small-heeled shoes. A small notebook is clutched tightly in one hand. She wears a short white coat like Tsing, but nothing about them is the same.

Her skin is paler than usual, he thinks, but clean. There's no trace of the scars that once covered her skin - at least, not that he can see. But she stands tall and firm, and he knows the hardness, the steel, is still there just below the surface of the mask she wears. Her eyes drink him in like she’s starving. Where he can’t stop his gaze from taking in everything about her, she only locks her eyes onto his.

(Somewhere in his mind, it occurs to him that this whole time, she’s been able to see every part of him except his eyes looking back at her.)

It’s somehow everything, and not nearly enough.

Clarke tears her gaze away first. “Is this your way of telling me you agree?”

It takes Bellamy a second to realize she’s talking to the stranger. But Cage answers for him.

“We decided there’s just one more step.”

“Which is?”

Her impatience is so familiar he could cry.

“Every subject should give their consent,” Cage drawls. “After all, that’s only fair. Isn’t that what you said?” 

She nods, sharp and quick. He spreads his arms wide. “Here’s your chance.” With an oily grin, he approaches Bellamy. “Don’t you want to say hi to your friend? I’m sure you remember her.”

Clarke’s eyes flash at him once, and he understands. His mouth twists.

“Not much of a friend, if you ask me,” he answers. _Hey, princess._

Her eyes smile even as she lets out an irritated breath.

“At the moment I’m the closest you’ve got.” _I’m not going anywhere._

“Lucky me.” _Goddamn it’s good to see you._

She turns a glare onto the older man. “I told you this was pointless. We’re not going to get anywhere like this. Do we have an agreement or not?”

He holds out his hands cautiously. “You know I am not opposed to your idea. However, I would like to hear his consent for myself.”

Clarke’s eyes sweep back to Bellamy. “Fine.” Then she’s marching forward, stopping just inches shy of crashing into him, her face lifted to his. "You have a choice. Stay here and continue to be a lab rat for these two,” she jerks her head to the side, “or come with me.”

Bellamy takes his time staring at her. (Hey, he’s considering his options, after all.)

“And why,” he says slowly, “would I want to do that?”

She’s biting her cheek to stop the smile, he just knows it. Her eyes dance, fire and steel and fight.

“Because otherwise, Dr. Tsing is more than happy to continue experimenting on you right here. They have other subjects I can choose from.”

So there were others still trapped here.

He lets his jaw clench with anger at the thought. “Why me?”

“You’re strong. You won’t break.” She throws it out like it’s a reluctant fact, but coming from her mouth it sounds more like a promise than anything else.

“So what, I’m going from one lab to another?”

To his surprise, a corner of her mouth curls up wryly. She turns to the older man. “ I think that’s your cue, President.” She takes a small step to the side but otherwise doesn’t move away.

The man sighs and motions to Cage. “Get those things off him.”

Cage’s eyes narrow. “I’m not sure that’s wise-”

“Do it.”

Cage stalks over and unlocks the bands over his arms and ankles. Without the restraints holding him up, he suddenly feels very weak. He sags against the wall, not trusting himself to stand on his own. The worry on Clarke’s face isn’t a guise; her hands have clenched into fists.

Bellamy looks back at the other man. “Well?” He bites out.

“My name is Dante Wallace. I am the head of Mount Weather. My people have been here since…” his words continue to flow out, explaining their history, and quite frankly, stalling a hell of a lot.

“What’s your point?” Bellamy interrupts tiredly.

“You are the first people to have landed here and survived the elements. I would request your help, in return for your guaranteed safety.”

Bellamy can’t help the harsh laugh that escapes. “Safe? Here?”

Wallace’s eyes are tinged with sadness when he replies. “I am genuinely sorry for what was done to you. However, I can promise nothing like it will ever occur again if you will agree to one thing.”

“Which is?”

“Stay here. Let us build on our combined technologies. Miss Griffin has told us of your extensive knowledge of your... Ark, was it? You have clearly demonstrated you are strong. We need that among our people. We will offer you protection from those in the forest. And in return we only ask that once every month, we are allowed to take one vial of blood.”

“What for?”

Now Clarke steps closer. “Something in our genes conditioned us to survive outside when we landed. Something that they don’t have. It would be in both of our interests to learn what that is, so we can co-exist, maybe even expand our communities one day.”

Even though it sounds like something she might have once wanted, Bellamy only has to take one look to know she thinks it’s a load of bullshit.

But it’s also their only way out.

The president’s voice is quiet. “Miss Griffin has stuck her neck out quite far for you. I would consider this carefully.” 

Bellamy glances at Clarke. Her eyes tell him to say yes. _Trust me._ So he sets his jaw and pushes himself to stand without support. He holds out a hand to Wallace.

“Looks like you’ve got a deal.”

~~~~~~~

The next hour passes in a blur. He’s allowed to walk of his own free will down corridors he didn’t even know existed. It takes him an eternity, on legs that won’t stop shaking, but he manages. He’s given fresh clothes, a towel, even a freaking toothbrush, and ushered into a small bathroom.

The spray of the shower makes him flinch, bringing back memories he’d just as soon forget. So he turns on the faucet instead, cupping his hands and bringing water to his body like a child splashing in a bathtub.

When Bellamy steps outside, Clarke is waiting. She’s gotten rid of the lab coat, and several long strands of hair have escaped her braid. Before he can say a word, she grabs his hand and tugs him down the hall, past guards, past several doors, even a window that tells him it’s nighttime - until they reach a small dormitory. 

As he opens his mouth, Clarke puts a finger to her lips with a quick shake of the head. She taps her ear once. 

_They’re listening._

“Want a tour?” 

She doesn’t wait for a response. Flipping on the lights - fucking fluorescents, again - she drags him past the small twin beds and into the bathroom. Another light switch, and then she’s moving to the shower and turning on the spray.

Bellamy eases back. Clarke turns to see him nearly flattened against the door and her eyes widen.

 _I’m sorry,_ she mouths.

He nods. 

She ducks under the sink, crawling on her hands and knees until she finds what she’s looking for. With a hard yank, the small wire comes free. She stomps on the attached mic with her heel for good measure before tossing it into the sink and running water over it.

When she comes to stand in front of him, they stare at each other for a long moment.

Bellamy breaks first.

He reaches out and takes her roughly into his arms, burying his face into her shoulder with a strangled sound. Clarke pulls herself to her tiptoes, winding her arms around his neck just as tight.

“I’m sorry,” she breathes. “I’m so, so sorry Bellamy.”

He opens his mouth to tell her it’s not necessary, only to shudder as tears leak from his eyes and onto her skin. Her hands comb through his hair as she murmurs softly, soothingly into his ear. She’s trembling just as hard as he is, and he’s not entirely sure that she’s not crying too.

When his legs give way, she slides to the floor with him, unwilling to let go. He ends up with Clarke in his lap as they hold each other like lifelines. 

“You came back,” he whispers.

The sound she makes is part laugh, part sob. “Of course I came back, you idiot. I always will.”

Hearing the words just makes him unravel even more.

“But I never should have sent you in the first place.”

Bellamy lifts his head to look into her eyes. “I was stupid, and scared,” Clarke continues softly. “I thought I was being tough, that I was making the strong choice. I was wrong. It should never have been an option.”

She leans forward, touching her forehead to his. “ _You_ are my strength, Bellamy.”

A tear from his cheek spills onto hers. “I don’t feel all that strong right now.”

“It’s okay.” Her mouth brushes over the wetness on his face. “You’ve got me. I’m going to take care of you.”

He nods and presses his face into her shoulder again, content to be surrounded by her arms.

Eventually she begins talking again, but this time it’s about the camp and the alliance and training and his sister. Somehow she knows he needs to hear this, hear what has been happening in their time apart, how their people are adjusting and surviving once more.

“I can’t wait for you to see Octavia,” she smiles against his ear. “She’s the fiercest Grounder there ever was. Which, you know, is saying a lot.”

He lets out a choked laugh. “I bet.”

At this point the tears have stopped, but he has no intention of letting her go, and since she seems to feel the same, they stay there.

She tells him of how their first attempt to break into Mount Weather went south, how only a few made it out before the breach was contained. After that, things tightened considerably. Going in guns blazing would have meant almost certain death for their people. She’s just getting to the part where she decided to come in alone when he drifts to sleep.

~~~~~~~

Bellamy is roused by long hair tickling his cheek. He shifts and cracks an eye open to see Clarke wrapped around him. Her head lies on his chest, her hair splayed out around her.

Part of him is still terrified he’s dreaming - that this is some sick joke. But he takes comfort in the fact that the stretch of his shoulder and the stitches in his back still cause him pain. 

He taps her arm, waiting for her to lift drowsy eyes to his. “My back,” he says apologetically.

Clarke blinks for a moment before the understanding dawns on her face. She scrambles up immediately, pulling him to his feet after she’s shut off the water. He lies down on the closest bed, tugging her next to him without a thought. Their limbs tangle together in a natural movement, and when Clarke nuzzles further against his chest with a small sigh, it doesn’t take him long to fall back asleep.

When Bellamy’s eyes open next, he can hear the faint sound of a bell coming from outside.

“Breakfast,” Clarke mumbles sleepily.

He looks down, desperately glad she hasn’t moved an inch. 

“You need to eat,” she yawns, and the words are so familiar he smiles against her hair. “I mean it,” she says, accompanying the words with a soft poke. “You’ll need to rebuild your strength.”

Bellamy nods at the reminder. There is still work to be done, after all. Then he hears footsteps in the hall and automatically tenses, fingers digging into Clarke's waist. But whoever it is passes by the door without pausing, and the sound fades into the distance.

Clarke leans up, her hand on his cheek. “You’re mine,” she says fiercely. “They won’t touch you now.”

He swallows and nods again. “You have to meet Tsing today?”

“For the morning. I’ll be back by lunchtime.”

“Okay.” His voice sounds very small, even to him. He lets her go without another word, though he can’t quite help pacing the length of the small room for the next couple hours until he hears her familiar steps outside the door.

As soon as she’s inside, the binders in her hands get tossed on the bed and she slides into his arms. 

“I have work for you,” she says eventually.

“Oh yeah?”

She takes his hand and pulls him to sit on the edge of the bed. Opening a binder, she unclips a few sheets of paper. He stares at the writing - most of the terminology is unfamiliar. But then she flips it over, and he sees a list, accompanied by rough sketches and numbers.

“Exercises?”

“I’ve been making a list, based on your inj… based on your chart. They’ll help stretch out your muscles, get them used to being used again. You can start out slow and work your way up to more repetitions.”

“But I thought-”

The protest dies in his throat when she lays a finger against his lips in warning. Bellamy takes the sheets of paper and flips through them, identifying which to start with based on what part of his body aches the least.

“And one more thing,” Clarke drops another paper on top of the stack. “You’ve got a lot of studying to do.”

It’s a map. Of Mount Weather. He looks up in surprise to see her grin. 

The next few days pass in a similar manner. He spends every moment in that little room, studying or exercising in the daytime while Clarke is out. Sometimes she’s stuck in the lab, but other times she manages to do scouting of her own. True to her word, he isn't bothered by anyone. When he wonders aloud if he should be worried by that, she shakes her head, explaining that he's allowed some time to recover on his own. Eventually he'll have to begin venturing outside and mingling a little, but he hopes her plan goes into effect before that. 

One day Clarke's shirt rides up as she's getting up from the bed, and he gasps sharply at the faded scars along her hip. She follows his gaze and her eyes widen.

“Bellamy-”

He drags her into the bathroom, flipping on the water immediately before crowding her against the door. 

“What happened?”

“It’s not-”

_”What. Happened.”_

Clarke’s hands find his shoulders, squeezing in comfort. “It took a while to gain their trust. Nothing more. I was in solitary most of the time.”

“Then how-”

“I volunteered,” she blurts out, and the crack in her voice makes him grip her harder. “I didn’t know where you were, and they had already hurt everyone else. I thought if I got in there, maybe I could get some hint as to how to find you.” 

“Turns out, Tsing was more hungry for knowledge than anything else,” Clarke continues. “Medical knowledge. So we talked. I made up half of what I told her from conversations I overheard on the Ark. I don’t even know what was true. But that was my way in.”

Bellamy drops his forehead to hers. “Jesus, Clarke.”

“Wallace wouldn’t let them hurt me. They did a few preliminary tests, that’s all. As soon as Tsing realized I had information she needed, it was over.”

“They’ll come after you,” he breathes.

“I’m not afraid of them. Not anymore.” Her eyes catch his, and hold. “The only thing I’m scared of is losing you.”

Bellamy shakes his head. “Not gonna happen.”

It’s not just a promise; it’s a vow.

At night, they’re wrapped together so tightly he wonders where he ends and she begins.

~~~~~~~

He still can’t bring himself to shower. 

One day Clarke walks into the bathroom to find him curled on the floor, fully clothed while the water runs. Gently, she closes the door and kneels in front of him. A finger lifts his chin until he meets her eyes.

“Bellamy, you need to do this.”

“I’m clean enough,” he mutters weakly. 

Clarke grabs his chin when he tries to look away. “You’re not listening.” She brings her mouth to his ear. “ You need to get in the water.”

His heart thuds frantically when he realizes what she means. Water. Their escape route.

He looks at her helplessly, clutching her hand. “I _can’t._ ”

“Yes, you can.” She sets her jaw stubbornly. “I know you can do this.”

“How?”

She looks between him and the water a few times, her forehead creased in thought. Finally she laces her fingers with his and pulls him to his feet.

“I’m going to help you.”

She swallows somewhat nervously and wets her lips. Then she reaches down and yanks off her shirt.

“Clarke!” His voice is dangerously high.

Clarke glares even though she’s turning red all over. _All over._ “What? I think we’re past the point of decency, don’t you?”

Turning her back to him, she strips off her jeans. His mouth goes dry and he closes his eyes as his head thuds back against the wall. _That_ is a sight he won’t soon forget.

“Bellamy.” 

She arches an eyebrow when his eyes open. How she manages to be stern while standing in front of him blushing furiously in her dark bra and panties, he’ll never know. 

“Strip,” she orders.

Because he’s insanely fucking nervous, he cracks a joke. “Didn’t know you were so eager to get me naked, princess.”

Clarke blinks, her lips parting in surprise. Then she flings her arms around him, laughing softly into his ear. “God, I missed you,” she sighs, and it’s like something snaps inside of him. Or becomes whole again. Who fucking knows.

Bellamy kisses her bare shoulder, nuzzling his face into her neck just to hear her laugh once more. When she finally draws away, she makes an _off_ motion to his clothes, still smiling, and turns to adjust the water temperature. He leaves his briefs on since she hasn’t removed her underclothes either. When she holds out her hand, he takes it and lets her tug him closer." 

Their fingers stay linked as she steps into the shower, backing directly under the spray. But when the first drops of water hit his feet, he hesitates.

“Hey,” Clarke’s soft voice makes him look up. “Focus on me.”

So he does, watching the water cascade over her body. It plasters her hair to her face, streams in rivulets over the slope of her shoulders and down her chest. His feet begin to move again, his grip on her hand tightening as the force of the water increases. She urges him forward until he’s right in front of her, the water covering them both.

The memories hit him quickly and he closes his eyes, his body beginning to shake. Clarke murmurs and puts her arms around him, tucking his face into her shoulder and carding her fingers through his hair. 

He takes a deep breath, feeling his chest brush against hers. “Talk to me, Clarke. Please,” he begs.

Her voice drifts into his ear immediately. She tells him how they’re going to escape. How Raven and Monty and Wick have planned a special distraction on one side of the mountain, how she plans to open the rest of the cages, how they’ll run through the tunnels until they hit the waterfall. How their people will be waiting for them at the bottom.

Then she tells him she loves him.

That she’ll spend the rest of their life showing him, if he’ll let her.

(If he wasn’t so close to crying, he’d laugh at the _if._ Like it’s a choice. Like there’s anything else he could possibly want in this world.)

He’s not sure when the tears start, but they mingle with the water and soak into her skin and Clarke only holds him closer.

When the water runs cold, he flinches. Her arms tighten. "This is what the river will feel like,” she reminds him. He grits his teeth and stays there, focusing on the feel of her in his arms.

A few minutes later they’re both shivering, so Clarke finally turns the water off and they climb out. Bellamy reaches for the towel, wrapping it around Clarke and pulling her back against his body. As she adjusts the other towel over his shoulders, he looks down in question.

“You said-”

He pauses, reaching over to the sink and turning the faucet on loudly. Bending down, he whispers, “You said they’re waiting. For what?”

“My signal.”

“When will you give it?”

She smiles and kisses his cheek. “When you’re ready.”

~~~~~~~

Bellamy throws himself into the exercises with a renewed vigor. His body protests, but he pushes on until the strain becomes a familiar one, until the ache in his muscles isn’t from disuse but repetition. Clarke returns every day with new information about the guards that patrol the hallways. They mark her map with different colored markers to indicate the timing at each exit. He’s able to keep track of the days and nights again.

They’re lying together one night when he squeezes her shoulder.

“I’m ready when you are,” he tells her, and her smile lights up the dark room. She doesn’t ask him if he’s sure. She knows.

The next morning, he wakes to her face hovering inches over his. “I need to do something, just once, before we go,” she says.

“Okay?”

Clarke searches his eyes for a moment before leaning closer. He’s waiting for her to stop, so his eyes are open when her lips cover his. It’s a careful touch, just gentle pressure as she moves her mouth slowly. Bellamy lays utterly still, afraid if he closes his eyes she’ll disappear.

When she pulls back, he can’t stop staring at her. She swallows uncertainly.

“I-”

Bellamy’s body kicks into gear and he leans up and kisses her properly. His hands tangle into her hair to draw her close, feeling her sigh into his mouth. This time their lips join willingly, eager to learn each other in a short amount of time. His arm slides up her back as her hands cradle his face, and they kiss and kiss until they’re out of breath. 

Clarke smiles, eyes bright and cheeks flushed. It’s a sight he wants to see forever. Her fingers stroke over the curls on his forehead. 

“I love you,” he says.

She takes a deep, shuddering breath and presses her face into the crook of his neck. He feels her repeat the words against his skin and holds her tight.

When the morning bell begins to chime, they reluctantly unwind from each other. 

“I’ll be back in an hour,” she promises.

Bellamy’s just finishing the final checks when the ground begins to shake. Alarmed, he runs to the door just as it flies open. Clarke’s face is set in grim determination. 

“You’re okay,” he breathes.

She pulls his mouth to hers. “It’s Raven’s distraction.” Her fingers link with his. “Now we run.”

“What about the cages?”

“Open. Knocked out Tsing with the meds and took the keys.”

The halls are empty when they step outside. Raven's distraction has done its job. They head the opposite way, ducking and sliding down corridors hand in hand. Clarke leads them around countless corners and down several stairs until they enter an empty medical unit. Going immediately to the corner, she pulls at the heavy containment door. Bellamy joins her and together they heave it open.

“Remember,” she tugs his shirt. “Trap door ahead.”

Their hands curl together and they step into the small room. An alarm wails overhead. Bellamy has time to take one breath before the floor gives way, and they’re falling. They land in an empty cart with a mix of groans and sighs. Just as he’s helping her to her feet, hands reach over the edge of the cart.

“Clarke! Bellamy!” It's Miller's voice.

Bellamy gives her a boost and she’s grasped by waiting arms. Then he heaves himself over the side, feeling several hands lower him to the ground. He looks into the grateful eyes of old friends and returns their grins.

Then Clarke is pulling him up. "Reapers?" He asks. 

"They're busy dealing with a cave in. Time to go."

They take off as a group. Bellamy hears the rushing water before he sees it. Clarke’s fingers tighten around his. The others waste no time heading to the edge and leaping off. His breath falters as they get closer.

Clarke turns to him, her gaze fierce and determined. “Whatever you do, don’t let go of me.”

“Right back at you, princess.”

They jump.

The freezing cold is a shock to his system, and for a moment the rush pulls him under and he’s back in the tank. Panic flares in his chest. He thrashes wildly, unable to tell up from down. 

Nails bite into the skin of his palm as familiar hands find his and pull. He follows the direction, blindly kicking his legs out with everything he has. Then he’s breaking the surface of the water, air streaming into his lungs in large gulps. 

A pair of strong arms wraps over his shoulders and fairly drags him the rest of the way, depositing him on the riverbank. Bellamy rolls onto his stomach, coughing out excess water and seeing Clarke do the same in the corner of his vision. Then he rests on solid ground, his head pressed to the grass and soil as he breathes deeply. There’s splashing and awe and coughing around him as the others get similar treatment.

When he finally rolls onto his back, Clarke smoothes back his hair and kisses him hard.

“Bellamy!”

The shout makes him sit up, his head twisting immediately to locate her. He has only a moment to register someone running, and then Octavia tackles him to the ground again. 

“Ow! Damn, O. Let a guy breathe.”

“Shut up.”

Bellamy laughs and hugs her gratefully. Over her shoulder, his eyes find Lincoln, who stands a few feet away. It’s then that he realizes who pulled him from the river. He nods in thanks.

When his sister draws back, he traces the paint on her face in wonder.

“Look at you,” he says softly. She presses noisy kisses all over his face, making him squirm and push her off even as he laughs again. Octavia launches herself at Clarke next. 

Soon they’re all standing as the Grounders, led by none other than his sister, begin to herd them back into the forest. 

Clarke looks over at him and holds out her hand. “Let’s go home.”

Bellamy smiles, pulling her close, and together they turn their back on the mountain.


End file.
